


The Work of Hands

by starduster



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Of the gentlest sort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-13
Updated: 2016-07-13
Packaged: 2018-07-23 20:57:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7479741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starduster/pseuds/starduster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phantom pain tends to strike at the most inopportune moments.  Luckily, McCree knows how to help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Work of Hands

**Author's Note:**

> This was both written and submitted on mobile, so please excuse any formatting errors because I can't cell phone.

Fifteen years now since he became a cripple. Fifteen years since he woke up in a hospital with his father standing before him with a sadistic smirk on his face, fifteen years since he was told that he could now only stand with the Shimada-gumi’s assistance.

Fifteen years since he lost his legs and the damn things still ache.  

The phantom pain likes to strike at inopportune moments: walking down the street, climbing to a vantage point with his bow in hand, or even when he's fast asleep, like now.

Hanzo awakens to a burning, searing pain at the ends of his stumps, like someone pressed a red-hot pan fresh off the stove flat against the folded skin.  Pain shoots down the length of his nonexistent calves and twists the remembered muscles into excruciating cramps.  

Beads of sweat are forming on Hanzo’s forehead as his fingers clench in the sheets, and he attempts to flex his toes in an effort to stretch out the cramped muscles in his calves.  But there’s nothing there, of course;  his real toes have long since been burned in some medical incinerator and his prosthetic legs don't have articulated toes anyway.  Briefly he considers putting his legs on and trying to walk out the cramps.  Turning his head, he tries to locate where he left them the night before.  

There they are, halfway across the room, abandoned by the door.  That's a worthless place for them, he thinks with a pained grimace when another jolt of pain shoots down to his feet.   _ Why are they over there…? _

And then from behind him comes a soft, apneic snort, and Hanzo remembers why he's legless and naked in a bed that isn't his.

McCree is sprawled out beside him under the sheets, snoring softly and occasionally mumbling in his sleep.  The previous night comes back to him in snippets; there was alcohol involved.  They groped each other clumsily in the halls until they finally managed to drag themselves back to McCree’s room and fuck around properly.  If his legs weren't screaming in pain, Hanzo might have even been able to appreciate the ache in his lower back indicative of a good fuck and the peaceful, safe atmosphere in the room.  But his legs feel like they're on fire.

He considers waking McCree and asking him to retrieve his legs, given that McCree’s libido is probably the reason his legs are strewn across the other side of the room and Hanzo really doesn’t feel like dragging himself across the floor to get them.  He sits up and turns toward the gunslinger, but the almost dopishly cute expression on his sleeping face makes him pause.  He looks like a big, unkempt little kid sleeping.  His own prosthetic arm is curled protectively over his chest, and his metal fingers twitch against the thicket of hair blanketing his chest.  Hanzo envies him; McCree’s arm is bionic and hooked into his nervous system, an expensive gift from Overwatch.  Hanzo used to have bionic legs, back at the beginning before he fled the Shimada-gumi and their infinite bank accounts.  

With a sigh he turns away from McCree, tiredly eyeballing his legs across the room.  But when he moves to swing his stumps over the side of the bed a fresh burst of pain flares through his nerves, pain so intense it sucks the breath out of his lungs and doubles him over with spots in his vision.  He doesn't realize he's whimpering until the bed shifts behind him and a cool metal hand lands on his hip.

“Hanzo…?”  He hears McCree mumble sleepily over the blood pounding in his ears.  “What’s wrong?

He steels himself, takes a deep, shaky breath and straightens himself up with a shudder.  “It’s nothing,” he manages, fingers twitching in his lap.  

“Don't sound like nothing,” comes the gruff reply.  McCree’s hand strokes absently over his skin until after a moment he speaks again.  “Phantom limb?”

Hanzo turns enough to peer back at McCree lying behind him.  “How could you tell?”

McCree’s mechanical hand squeezes Hanzo’s hip suggestively.   _ That makes sense _ . “I used to get it so bad at first that I almost got myself addicted to painkillers just to get it to stop hollerin’ at all hours of the day.”  He laughs quietly.  “‘n fact, I think Angela gave me this arm just to get me to stop coming to pester her for drugs.  But anyways, let me help you.”

“I don't think there's anything you can do,” Hanzo replies quietly, feeling the blood thrumming through his aching legs.  

“Well I'd be a fool if I didn't try,” McCree says jovially, and he clambers out of bed and hoists himself to his feet with a groan.  Hanzo watches with curiosity as McCree makes his way over to Hanzo’s discarded legs and carries them back over, setting them neatly before him.  Getting back into them is killer, and when the vacuum seals around the stumps Hanzo has to bite back a cry.  McCree notices this and rests his flesh hand on Hanzo’s thigh, rubbing comfortingly.

McCree settles back on the bed, sitting in front of him and folding his legs under him.  “Now put your legs under the blanket and put ‘em on my lap.”

Hanzo stares at him incredulously.  “This is no time for fooling around,” he huffs.  But he finds himself doing exactly as McCree said.

“This is somethin’ Angela taught me before I got this arm,” he explains as he rests his hands on one blanketed steel calf and starts rubbing.  “Watch my hands, don't look at me.  We’re gonna trick your brain into thinking we're massaging your actual legs.”  

McCree’s big hands slide carefully over the blanket, pushing and prodding like a perfect masseuse.  Hanzo is acutely aware that McCree is watching his face, but he keeps his eyes steadfastly on McCree’s hands.  

And damn him, it's actually working.  When McCree’s hands manipulate Hanzo’s foot, a sharp pain courses up the back of his calf before mercifully releasing.  When his hands knead the back of the calf, the phantom knot works itself put slowly and smoothly.  Before he can stop it a moan slips out of his lips and Hanzo fists his fingers in the blanket because it feels so damn  _ good _ .

McCree laughs at him, but it's filled with affection and makes Hanzo’s heart beat a little faster.  “Was that it?  Had a charlie horse, didja?” He gently sits the leg down and switches to the next one.  

Hanzo’s eyebrows knit together in confusion.  “What in hell is a charlie horse?”

“Y’know, a charlie horse,” McCree explains, flapping his hand eloquently at Hanzo’s leg.  “When yer calf cramps up like that, a charlie horse.”  His fingers slip under his knee and work at the next cramp, and Hanzo thinks he might melt.

“A stupid name,” Hanzo bites out on the tail end of another little moan.  “Who the hell is Charlie?”

McCree laughs again, and it sounds like heaven.  

Finally, the pain has subsided to a dull ache, one that Hanzo knows will be gone by morning.   McCree gives him a final affectionate pat on the leg and smiles up at him.  “How's that feel?”

“Much better, thank God,” Hanzo mutters, bending down to release the vacuum seals and slip his stumps out of the sockets.  As he sets them at his bedside, he says more quietly, “Thank you.  I truly appreciate it.”  

“Any time, darlin’, any time.”  McCree is shuffling back under the blankets now, yawning and pulling Hanzo down against him.  He plants a kiss on Hanzo’s lips and settles down to sleep. “I'll give you naked leg massages any time of the day, sweetheart.”

Hanzo can't stop the little smile that spreads across his face. "I'll hold you to that, then."

**Author's Note:**

> My tumblr. 


End file.
